


When Things Get Wet

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cute, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-27 21:46:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The three times Dean notices how Cas's hair goes a little curly when it's wet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

**THE FIRST ENCOUNTER**

 

When Castiel's hair gets wet, it goes a little curly. Dean discovered this one morning when he almost ran into the ex-angel on his way to the kitchen. Cas was wearing nothing but a towel, water droplets glistening across the plains and dips of his bare chest, trailing their way down to the low-slung white towel. Dean flustered his way through an apology and made a hasty exit, practically tripping over his own feet as he left. Cas just nodded and yawned and padded off down the corridor, back to his bedroom; clearly oblivious to Dean's stuttering reaction. Dean couldn't quite manage to get that image out of his mind over breakfast - Cas's skin still a little flushed from the heat of the shower, eyes flickering over Dean's face as he had apologised for almost pushing him into the wall, his hair all over the place and a little curly, sticking up in places like he had ruffled a towel over his head to get the moisture out. Dean sipped his coffee and tried to think of anything but the v of Cas's hips and the way he had held the towel so loosely as he padded bare foot down the stone corridor, the muscles on his back rippling with the lazy swing of his arm.

He didn't see Cas again until lunchtime, but by then his hair was dry and he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, complimented with a thick black belt around his hips and odd socks on the feet he propped up on the table. Dean remembered seeing another version of Cas do that once, but he had assumed it was because  _that_  Cas had been human and as high as balls - it had just never seemed like something the angel would do. Dean guessed he was wrong. He certainly didn't know Cas as well as he had imagined. For example, underneath that quizzical and book-nerd exterior, the guy had the body of a hunter; tight muscle and lean sinew and a leonine way of moving, even when still groggy from sleep. Dean  _seriously_  had to get that image out of his head.

They went down to the firing range and he ran Cas by a couple of his favourite handguns: Taurus 92, Colt 1911, Beretta 99. They worked on Cas's stance, Point Shooting and FSA method of firing. Dean taught him how to breathe through squeezing the trigger; how you had to let the action of firing of a round be as natural as the space between heartbeats. Cas was an exhaler - letting a bullet fly down the range and punch through the target was just an extension of breath leaving his lungs. Dean may or may not have watched the deep rise and fall of Cas's chest with each round aimed. He may or may not have deliberately corrected Cas's positioning through the arms and shoulders himself, letting his hands rise and fall from Cas's elbows and shoulders at frequent intervals. Cas may or may not have kept his arms loose through their coverage of quick fire point shooting solely to have Dean's warm palms slide across his skin, fingers applying pressure, manoeuvring Cas's limbs to the place he wanted them.

By the end of their session, they were standing much closer than they had been to start with, and Cas's groupings had gone from tight to haphazard at best - his attention clearly having strayed.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

**THE SECOND COMING**

The next time Dean saw Cas with damp hair was a few days later when he walked into the gym to find him beating seven levels of hell out of the punch bag. And Dean had been to hell, so he totally knew what beating the hell out of something looked like. This right here was the real deal. He stood there, just inside the doorway, not really sure if he should walk into the room or back out of it again. It looked like Cas needed some space, but maybe the guy needed to talk it out instead. Dean knew the release of anger when he saw it and he knew that sometimes hurting yourself was worse than the anger you felt. Cas was walking the line of pain and release. Dean stepped forwards.

"Hey, Cas, buddy..." he began, drawing the man's attention. “You doing okay?" Cas looked down and then back up at his, and his hairline was damp with sweat that caught the light and drew Dean's eye ever so briefly. Dean clocked the way the hair behind Cas's ears was curling in gently. Looked like it tickled, the way the curls were lying over Cas's pale skin. Dean swallowed. Careful now, boy.

"Yea, yea, just," Cas took a breath, chest hitching and cheeks red from exertion. "I'm just working out while I have the time. I'm fine." He smiled at Dean. It wasn't very convincing.

"Well you might wanna pull it back a bit. Leave some punch bag for the rest of us, know what I'm saying?" Reproachful. Cautious. He still didn't know how Cas was adjusting besides the fact that his emotions were a little all over the place and to deal with that Cas needed to focus on something he found familiar; that thing had been the training. He said once before that he wanted to be a hunter, and it had taken Dean a little by surprise, but really what had he been expecting? Angels were warriors of God. Hunters were warriors of Man. It was a step down from a seraph blade, sure, but it was close enough that Cas adapted with ease and dexterity to the routine and lifestyle of it all.

Cas took in his words and took a step back. Let his hands fall from their boxers’ stance. Unclenched his fists and winced at the sting of pain in his sore knuckles.

"Know what, man?" Dean said, already regretting his words but not really caring that much. "Why don't you and me go a few rounds in the ring?" Cas looked apprehensive and made to dissuade him, but Dean waved the protests off. "Come on, I'll go easy on you. Let's teach you how to throw a proper punch. It'll help to work through whatever it is you're working through." Dean was already walking to the boxing ring (oh yea, the Men of Letters had one. God knows why they did, but Dean thanked blessed Jesus for it every day).

"Come on," he called over his shoulder at Cas. "What, are you afraid to get physical or something?" He laughed as Cas scowled and rose to the challenge.

"You know I can have you on your back in seconds, boy," Cas said, voice low, eyes determined.

"That a threat or a promise?" Dean cracked, and he may have felt a little exhilarated at the answer he got, but he made sure it didn't show.

"Both."

Needless to say, Cas did indeed have Dean on his back by the end of their session. It took a while longer than mere seconds, but it was still easier for him to accomplish than Dean had thought. Castiel had a natural precognition of Dean's fighting skill, either because he had witnessed it countless times or because he was a ridiculous fast learner, possible telepath, or maybe just freakishly good at predicting the way fights would go. Dean certainly found the ex-angel blocking every punch, hook and jab he threw, and landing a few of his own that took the hunter completely by surprise.

"What did you expect, Dean?" Castiel asked with a wry humour to his tone, barely holding back his mocking grin as he leaned over the up-ended Winchester. "Did you suppose I would be rusty?"

"Course not," Dean huffed, a little irritated that Cas had made it look so easy to floor him.

"Maybe you're the one who's a little rusty?" Cas pondered aloud, milking his victory. Dean bitch faced up at him and hooked his foot around Cas's ankle, toppling him onto the mat. He rolled and straddled the guy and now it was Cas's turn to look irritated.

"You distracted me," he said. "Clever."

"I have my moments." It became dawningly clear to Dean that this right here could easily slip into a moment of a different sort between the two of them; him straddling Cas, bodies pushed up close and personal, his weight bearing down, keeping him pinned, hands holding Cas's arms out to the sides, feeling Cas's jagged breathing lifting his thighs up a little with every inhale. Dean gulped and shifted off him slightly, putting a bit more distance between the two of them, trying not to stare at the way Cas's shirt was clinging to his damp skin, outlining the bones of his ribs and the muscle of his chest and stomach and collars. He saw Cas's Adams apple bob up and down as he swallowed, and Dean bit his lip. Now that was a sight that was bound to keep him up at night.

He remembered what lay beneath that shirt and he thought of how much he wanted to see Cas shirtless and sweating, smelling like the dust of the boxing mat and the heat of a workout and the mustiness of that fabric softener he loved using so goddamn much. Sweat and dust and must and Dean was going crazy like this, staring down at him, biting his lip to stop from leaning down and biting Cas's. This was  _way_  over the line, and Dean knew it.

He stood and left the ring.

"We'll pick this up some other time," he said as he left the gym, perhaps a little too fast. He didn't glance back, didn't want to see the confusion in Cas's blown pupils.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

** THE THIRD HAPPENING **

 

 

It was a Saturday that the rain came, and boy did it come in abundance.

They were out hunting. Not the supernatural, but the rabbits that bred like... well, rabbits, in the woodland and fields around the bunker. Rifles slung over shoulders and combat boots laced up tight. They walked single-file down narrow deer tracks, weaving between trees and leaping the brook that curved through the woods, looping back on itself every so often, making sure they all had wet boots by the time they had actually shot anything. Dean was making dinner later. Rabbit stew. It was something of a Winchester tradition, and yea it sounded a little awful, but most of the things they ate and did sounded a little awful. Cas wasn't convinced it was utterly worth it, but Sam insisted he had to try Dean's cooking (not that he ate Dean's cooking every evening or anything) and so he had relented and joined them on their hunt.

"Will two rabbits be enough, Dean?" he asked as thunder rolled ominously overhead. Dean glanced up at the sky too and realised just how very dark and muddy the clouds had become over the past hour.

"Uh," he managed before the first drop of rain fell and hit him on the shoulder. He swapped a look with Sam and nodded. They knew the weather could be pretty fierce out here, and they were definitely going to get wet on their way back to the bunker.

"Let's go," Sammy said, and the heavens opened.

"Wet" was a bit of an understatement. "Soaked" would have been more appropriate, or perhaps "drenched". Their look was less army-grade and more drowned-rat by the time they made it to the edge of the woods and out into the field. The grass clung to their legs and it was a challenge not to trip as they ran, arms up and covering their heads in a futile attempt to shield themselves from the pounding rain.

"Get in get in!" Dean yelled as Sam fumbled to unlock the door.

"You get it open then," Sam yelled back, stepping aside so Dean could try his hand. He growled in frustration as the key wouldn't turn in the lock, the rain causing his hands to slip off the metal. He dropped the key and swore.

"Fuck it," he said. "Just get in the car and we'll wait it out."

They ran. The impala (mercifully) was easier to open, and they piled into it as the rain slammed down on the roof and road around them and make the dirt thick and swamped and sucking at their boots. Lightning cracked above them and the sound of their doors slamming shut was lost in the roar of the thunder and the rain.

"So much for rabbit stew tonight," Sam sighed, leaning forward over the dash to gaze up at the blackening sky. Then he whipped his head round to stare at Dean. "Wait, you didn't bring the rabbits in here with you, did you?"

"There on the roof," Dean said. "Don't worry." He started the engine and turn on the heater. "But you  _should_ worry about the three soaked rifles that are in here with us. Just saying."

"Crap," Sam frowned, turning his over in his hands. "These are going to need to be stripped and dried and oiled. How long's the rain going to last?"

Dean shrugged. "Could be out here for hours." He took his jacket off and passed it to Cas in the back. "Shove that on the floor? We might as well try and dry off. Hey, climb into the front if you want, it's warmer up here." Because that was logical. That was something you should suggest to very wet men with ridiculously curly, messed up hair and even more ridiculously good looks. You know; helpfully suggest they should climb into the front next to you and take that coat off and dry out, possibly by using Dean's body heat because, you know, that's a decent thing to suggest.

Cas agreed that was indeed a decent suggestion, got out of the car and into the front on the driver’s side, so Dean was forced over to the middle and Cas was behind the wheel. He shivered and took off his coat and Dean thanked every god he knew of because Cas's shirt was hitched up and stuck to his skin, showing his hips. Perfect hips. Dean didn't know if he should be jealous or grateful that Cas had such a damn well-built body. He'd chosen a top-notch vessel, that was for damn sure.

They put the rifles in the back with their drenched coats and then waited out the storm. They turned on the radio and Dean started singing along, Sam adding his voice to the mix, Cas observing the brothers with a gentle smile on his lips. Dean turned to him at the chorus and encouraged him to sing along to words he didn't know. Cas told him he had a lovely singing voice and the note got a little caught in his throat, coming out a bit too strangled to be ignored.

"Uh, thanks?" he said, praying they couldn't see how much he was blushing at that because damn, Cas was so direct and sincere at times that it just put Dean on the spot and made him feel totally open and vulnerable and actually gave him butterflies which was. Huh. Weirdly nice.

He made a point of singing to himself as he made them dinner once the rain lifted enough for them to chance a dash for the bunker. He sung Hey Jude and Sweet Child 'o Mine, and Cas smiled at him as he helped him cook, the two of them standing hip to hip at the counter, hands brushing and arms crossing as they got in each other's way, deliberately wasting time just to spend more of it so close together. It was times like this, when Cas was playing on the same field as him, that Dean didn't have to guard his looks or his actions. Maybe one day he'd pluck up the courage to lean over and plant that kiss on Cas's lips. Maybe one day he'll come up behind Cas and link his arms around those perfect hips. Maybe one day he'll get to bury his nose in Cas's wet, curling hair after a shower and know that Cas was using _his_ shampoo and _his_ gel and then watch as Cas put on  _his_ clothes, only to let Dean undress him again.

One day. Maybe.

For now, though, Dean was just happy to gaze. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to huggybearstiel on tumblr for prompting this. Kudos and comment?


End file.
